


Sparking the Pavement

by artistic-writer (Itrustyoutokillme)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, cs fanfic, cs ff, cs fic, moto gp - Freeform, moto gp au, motorbike racer!killian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18648247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itrustyoutokillme/pseuds/artistic-writer
Summary: Sparking the Pavement – When a motorcycle is leaned enough to drag the pegs, floorboards, exhaust or other metal parts on the road resulting in a shower of sparks.Racing was like nothing else in the entire world.  The rush of the wind as it hit the protective leathers, pushing the supple material into the limbs hidden inside, trying with all its might to dislodge a rider that would never let go.  The rumble of the engine between thighs that gripped at the machine so tightly, muscles had formed on top of muscles there, powerful legs almost touching the ground on every corner, riders only braking momentarily before thrashing it out of the bend under the throaty roar of the bike.They didn’t control the superbike.  It controlled them.





	1. Chapter 1

Racing was like nothing else in the entire world. The rush of the wind as it hit the protective leathers, pushing the supple material into the limbs hidden inside, trying with all its might to dislodge a rider that would never let go. The rumble of the engine between thighs that gripped at the machine so tightly, muscles had formed on top of muscles there, powerful legs almost touching the ground on every corner, riders only braking momentarily before thrashing it out of the bend under the throaty roar of the bike.

They didn’t control the superbike. It controlled them.

Killian Jones had been racing his entire life. When he was barely old enough to speak, his father had sat him on top of his dirt bike and that was it. He was hooked. No child felt fear, and Killian was no exception, having fallen off everything you could have ever imagined. But each time he would get up and dust himself off. He took the pain, the scrapes, and the broken bones, to fulfill a family legacy that he was the most proud of.

The Jones family were winners. They had been winning motorcycle races in England since before he had even been born. His grandfather was a winner. His father was a winner. His brother was a winner. Killian began racing in the low classes, smaller engines that were easy for him to handle at his young age, but they were never a challenge. Soon he joined the Superbike Championship, following in his older brother’s footsteps and moving his entire life to the United States to better his career. But Killian was a pro, already, and he soon migrated to the next class of power, Moto2, the youngest rider to ever do so.

A few successful seasons in Moto2 saw Killian beating riders of a much higher calibre, including Liam Jones. Nearly five years older than Killian, his brother Liam had been the World Champion in Moto2 for seven years running, and when Killian won his first race, beating his older brother to the finish line by fractions of a second, the journalists couldn’t wait to get into the after race press room. The brothers were good about it, teasing each other at press conferences until they became a strange celebrity attraction at every event. Brothers had raced side by side before, but no younger sibling had ever been more successful, and the press lapped it up.

That year saw Killian taking the title from his brother, a feat no one had managed for nearly a decade, and he was almost immediately head hunted by Repsol Honda. They were a big team, with a much higher spending capacity than Killian’s previous teams were used to, and they were also MotoGP. MotoGP was the top of the tree, the highest point any rider could ever hope to reach in a professional racing career, and somewhere Liam had been trying to get to his entire life. He wasn’t hurt, or angry when Killian had told him he was moving to MotoGP, instead he was the proudest he could ever remember being of his little brother.

Killian’s first few seasons saw him finishing well. In his first year of MotoGP, Killian finished fifth overall, a good win for the team who had taken such a gamble on a rookie. But Honda’s vision and the potential they saw in him was not in vain, and that same year, Killian won the _Rookie of the Year_ award. It gave him a massive boost, and spurred on by words of encouragement from Liam, Killian managed fourth in his second year. 

However, the good times were not to last.

In 2005, Liam and Killian were dealt a blow. Their father, Brennan Jones, the man who had taught them both to ride and had given everything he had to make sure his boys were given every opportunity they could have to succeed, died. It was quick, a random car accident where Brennan had suffered a massive heart attack at the wheel and crashed into the side of a bridge. Both of the brothers were distraught, the funeral coming and going quicker than either had ever expected, but it made them more determined than ever to finish their seasons and make their father proud.

The same year, Liam finished his season out on top, adding a new World Championship title to his repertoire. The Superbike Championships were becoming tough competition, newer, younger riders coming in every year and pushing him to the limits of his capabilities. It had been a tough year, Liam barely able to grieve his father whilst having to answer question after question about Brennan’s accident in post race press rooms, so after the last race of his season, Liam announced a sabbatical. He was going to take a year to find himself again, spend some time with his wife Elsa and their daughter Hayden-Rose, and return to racing for the 2006/7 season.

Killian also finished the 2005 season out on the podium, finishing the last race of the season at the Californian circuit, Leguna Seca, in first place. It was an emotional win, tears from both brothers hidden behind the spray of celebratory champagne. Killian finished the season overall in third, his highest ever championship standing and just two places behind the season champion, Neal Cassidy. Cassidy had dominated MotoGP, winning consecutive seasons for the last two years, and Liam was sure that he had seen a tiny bead of nervous sweat from his brow when Killian had come so close to taking his title that year.

The 2006 season was a little slow and Killian got off to a poor start. During the second race of the season, during an overtaking maneuver, he had touched wheels with Cassidy and was sent flying over the handlebars of his bike. Luckily, thanks to his high grade protective gear and the fact he was thrown clear of the bike, Killian escaped the crash with just a broken hand. It wasn’t serious, and race medics cleared him for further races, but Cassidy wasn’t as lucky. After the race, fuelled by rage and adrenaline, Cassidy had been given a black eye and a broken nose by Liam Jones, accusing him of dirty race tactics and dangerous racing.

It didn’t matter though, because later that year, during one of the closest battles for the championship title the world of motorcycle racing had ever seen, Killian Jones came back from a fifty one point deficit, to beat current title holder Neal Cassidy in the very last race of the season. It was close. Too close to call. Jones had beat Cassidy to the finish line with just 0.002 seconds between them, taking the title, huge prize pot, and Neal’s pride all in one fell swoop.

Killian Jones was World Champion, and now, thanks to a very public tantrum by Cassidy, everyone knew his name.

Being the youngest ever World MotoGP Champion was everything Killian could have ever imagined. Money, fast bikes, fast cars and even faster women took over his life. He was famous, and for far more than simply being the younger brother of Liam Jones, and now the spotlight was firmly on him. Everything he did was in the limelight, sponsors were smothering him, everyone desperately trying to get a chance to pay him to wear their logos. 

Cassidy was not amused. Everything Killian now had, had been taken from him in the blink of an eye. The media played into their rivalry and in a way, they both used it to their advantage off the track, but on the track they were more serious. Killian was a racer, a true gentleman, but Neal was exactly as Liam had feared; a rat. He took every opportunity he had to exact legal and yet dangerous moves during a race to try and run Killian onto the gravel, but Killian was two steps ahead of him, taking another title, much to Cassidy’s distaste. 

Liam had returned to the racing circuit as promised the following year. During his time off, and seeing the possible potential from an all Jones racing team, Liam had been approached by Honda’s MotoGP division. They had asked him to be Killian’s new racing partner, the team seeing that the brothers were more than just two World Champions. They were unstoppable. With both brothers under their wing, Honda won the constructors championship in 2007 as well as claiming a one/two victory for both their riders.

Liam’s come back to racing had earned him a podium place finish in nearly every race, losing only to his younger brother. Racing Killian was fun, and it brought back memories of why he had loved racing in the first place. There was no malice, only two brothers competing at a sport they both loved more than anything else. At the end of the 2007 season, Liam stood on the second step, proud to have lost to Killian, who took pride of place at the top, another World Champion title under his belt at just twenty seven years old. 

Neal Cassidy had finished third, but at over fifteen points behind Liam, he hadn’t even come close to the brothers success.

It was a whirlwind, everything happening so fast that when Killian got a call from Elsa one sunny afternoon at practice, he was more than unprepared from her words.

_“It’s Liam.”_

Killian’s heart had plummeted, the dread in him stomach rising to his throat and constricting his airway, his own anxiety strangling him where he stood on the blazing hot tarmac. He was thankful for the sunglasses he wore because they shielded the tears that had welled in his eyes, but they couldn’t hide the flush of heat that crept over his cheeks so they matched the colour of his team shirt. His words had the entire paddock looking in his direction, the strain in his screeching voice making every mechanic down their tools and listen, their own hearts in their mouths.

A near miss. That’s what the doctors had called it, but both Killian and Elsa had come far closer to losing what they loved most than they had ever wanted. Liam had been in a crash, on his day off no less, the car coming out of nowhere and him, unable to stop, flying over the hood and sliding into a concrete pillar. Luckily he was in his leathers and not travelling very fast, but his motorcycle was ruined, written off in the impact. The doctor’s had said Liam was only alive because of his race training on how to fall in a crash.

Coming so close to losing his brother was eye opening for Killian. He never wanted to hear Elsa cry like that again, or listen to the quake in her voice as she had told his eight year old niece that her father was never going to race again. Killian thought he detected a hint of relief in her voice, finally able to have her husband safe and in one piece, something he knew Elsa had worried about since Liam had moved to MotoGP. Moto2 was safe, it made sure he was home each night, even if they did live in a trailer for most of the year. MotoGP was more power, more accidents and more deaths each year than any other tier of the racing world.

Elsa worried for her husband constantly, and Killian had only ever wanted that. Not that he had anyone to wait for him. He wasn’t even dating. He had no time, very little to himself between racing, travelling and practice, sponsorship deals and photoshoots, but nearly losing Liam awoke something in him that even he couldn’t deny. It was time to stop sleeping around with pit girls, overzealous fans, and anyone else who wanted a piece of who he was. None of those encounters were real and Killian knew that if he had never been famous, they wouldn’t have even looked twice in his direction.

Liam had married his childhood sweetheart and Elsa had stuck with him through all of the good times and the bad. That was what Killian wanted. Someone to worry about him as much as Elsa did about Liam, someone to care, but also someone who knew his world, and respected his need to race. He needed to be on a bike. He was happy being last, even to Neal Cassidy, but Killian would never be happy without the sound of an engine in his ears and grease under his fingernails.

Liam retired just into the 2008 season, his professional racing career coming to an end because of the injuries he had sustained in his crash. He would get on a bike again, but he would never be cleared to race, and he was okay with that. At thirty two years old, he felt like he had missed enough of his daughter’s life, missing the little things that made his life worth living. Liam had missed Hayden-Rose’s first steps, her first words, and her first day of school. He wouldn’t miss a single moment more.

Barely two races into the season, with sixteen left in fifteen different countries, Killian was without a teammate. His team had been good to him, and he trusted their judgement, especially when they announced a new kid on the block as his new race partner. Will Scarlet was his name, another young up and comer from England that the team hoped would follow in Killian’s footsteps now that he had filled Liam’s. 

Will Scarlet was a little cheeky, sometimes cocky, but he was willing to learn from a rider more experienced than him, and that was all Killian could ask for. Will’s arrogance worked to his advantage, in practice and during races. Unlike so many before him, Scarlet let go of everything he had ever learned climbing the race ladder, knowing the MotoGP was something else. It was where riders were made, where champions were born, but he also knew that if they didn’t listen, it was where riders died.

There was barely any sort of age gap between them, so Killian and Will really hit it off as friends. They had more in common than they realised at first, bonding over England and often getting lost in jokes only they would understand from their homeland. Will also met Liam, who since his retirement had been bitten by the bike bug once more, but having promised Elsa to never race again, had taken a job as the team’s mechanic. He knew more about the bikes than anyone, and his experience as a rider gave him a unique insight into how the bikes could be tweaked for maximum performance. Soon, the Jones-Scarlet team were unstoppable, and at the end of the 2008 race season, Killian stole yet another title from Neal Cassidy.

And again in 2009. 2010 saw him joined on the podium by Will, both riders finishing out their seasons in first and second place respectively. They were the ultimate riding duo, other teams trying to poach them at least twice a week, but Killian and Will were loyal to Honda, the team that had made them and giving them so many opportunities. 

Things were good. But every good thing has to come to an end eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only supposed to be a bit of fun. It was never supposed to end this way.

The monotonous tone of Liam’s heart monitor rang out in the room, Killian’s body cold and frozen to the spot in the doorway where he had been stopped by a nurse. His fingers gripped the doorframe, knuckles white, the whole room buzzing with activity but in slow motion. Liam’s lifeless form was half covered, his leathers cut from his body like paper, discarded to the floor of the trauma bay at the feet of the people desperately trying to save his life. One doctor pounded a clenched fist against his chest and Killian flinched, unable to tear his eyes from the scene before him.

It was only supposed to be one race. It was never supposed to end this way.

The sound grew louder in Killian’s ears, the shouting of the doctors and nurses fading out and replaced by the high pitched tone of the machine. It jolted a few times, coinciding with another punch to his brother’s still chest, but it continued on, ringing in Killian’s ears. His throat went dry and he managed to shift his gaze when Liam’s arm fell off the edge of the gurney, limp and heavier than usual, his knuckles banging against the metal bed frame when they shocked his body. There was a pause, the whole room standing still, but nothing happened.

It was supposed to be for Liam’s birthday. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

There was no blood. There hadn’t been a single speck of the stuff, its presence as absent as Liam’s heartbeat. They shocked him again, nurses raising their arms and standing away from the bed as the doctor placed the flat pedals of the defibrillator to Liam’s bare chest and pulled the triggers. Liam’s body went rigid, his back arching off the bed, and then they waited, all eyes on the monitor he had been hooked up to. The same one with the infernal beep that made Killian’s eyes well with more tears.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

He felt hot inside his leathers, panic prickling his skin and bile rising to the back of his throat. Time stood still, the lump in his throat dry and sticking to the back of his mouth like an unwanted parasite. Killian staggered a little, his chest heaving inside of his suit, constricted by the tightness of the groin to neck zipper, and he rubbed a shaking hand over his face.

“Call it,” one of the doctors said solemnly over the tone of the monitor, and Killian’s head snapped up at his words.

“No!” he shouted, rushing into the room. “Shock him again!”

“Mr. Jones-” the doctor began, flattening his palm to the leathers covering Killian’s chest and stopping him in his tracks. Killian let out a desperate cry, looking down at the hand on his chest before looking up and meeting the doctors sorrowful eyes.

“Shock him again,” Killian growled through clenched teeth, the single beep of the machine at Liam’s bedside the only sound in the room. “Now.”

“We’ve done all we can,” the doctor said, looking back to Liam’s naked body lying lifeless.

“Do more!” Killian roared, sniffing, his entire body shaking with anger. 

“He’s gone, Mr. Jones,” another doctor said sadly, resting a hand on Killian’s shoulder. He shook it off aggressively, another pained sob escaping his throat. “I’m sorry.”

A nurse reached for the machine, flicking the switch and sending the room into a dull silence. It was deafening, every pair of eyes on Killian as the doctor looked at the clock and called time of death on the only family he had left.

“No!” Killian cried, shaking his head quickly. “No, no, no, no, no, no!” He screamed, crumpling to the floor and shaking. He buried his face in his hands, his body slumping against the doctor’s legs, one hand clutching at the unknown man’s calf like a child.

Nobody knew how quickly life could change more so than Killian. Racing was dangerous, it always would be. The very nature of a human sitting on top of such a powerful piece of engineering meant that as some stage, someone would die. But not Liam. Not like this. Not one week from his birthday. The sound of Killian’s cries echoed down the halls, nurses stopping in their tracks and looking towards the sound filled with such anguish that some of them shed tears of their own.

The room emptied around him, Killian still clutching the leg of the doctor beside him who let him, holding a hand to the back of Killian’s head and stroking his helmet flattened hair. Killian clutched the thin scrub material of the doctors pants, his leathers squeaking as he fell closer to the floor, his weight finally too much for the doctor who stepped sideways and let him fall. The doctor knelt down beside him, the older man offering him a comforting hand to his shoulder, unable to do much else.

“Is there anyone we can call for you?” he asked tentatively. “A wife? A friend?”

Elsa.

“Oh shit,” Killian sighed suddenly, ignoring the doctor and lifting his head to look at his deceased brother once more. He scrambled to his feet, his shock riddled body moving clumsily towards the bed because of the restrictive leathers. He tripped on Liam’s ruined leather suit, grabbing his brother’s arm as he tumbled and tugging the body towards him. Liam’s head rolled sideways and Killian was met with his cold, dead stare.

“Mr. Jones?” The doctor prodded, watching his odd behaviour.

“What am I supposed to tell Elsa?” Killian sobbed at his brother, ignoring the doctor behind him. He pawed at Liam’s face, his cooling skin almost hard under his touch, and stroked his fingers through Liam’s floppy brown hair so it wasn’t near his eyes. It had fallen forward over his face and he knew his brother always hated that. “And Rosie? God, Liam, you utter bastard.”

Killian’s knees found the tiled floor beside the bed and he began crying again, the rush of overwhelming emotion surging to his tear ducts once more. His eyes searched Liam’s but he found nothing there. No answer to his dilemma. No light behind the blue hues. Nothing. Liam was gone and he was to blame, and now he had to tell his wife that their only child would grow up without a father. 

“You bastard,” Killian whispered into Liam’s chest, his skin still warm against the side of his cheek where he rested his head. It made Killian hurt more and he found Liam’s arm hanging over the side of the bed, lifting it and holding his hand to his cheek. Any second he expected Liam’s fingers to flex against his stubbled jaw, to tell him things would be okay, but instead he was met with no movement, only the cold sting of Liam’s wedding ring reminding him of what he had to do.

\--

“Will, it’s Killian,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece of the off white phone. The nurses station had been good enough to let him use it to call a family member, but Killian wasn’t sure he could call Elsa. She had known him his entire life, so she deserved to know what had happened face to face.

“Alright, mate,” Will chirped down the phone. Curse him for having a day off today too. “I’m glad you called actually,” Will continued hurriedly. “I’ve been meaning to ask-”

“Will, stop,” Killian huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

The line went silent. Will had known him for no time at all compared to Liam or Elsa, but he knew him well enough to recognise the tone of his voice meant something was wrong. Killian sighed into the phone, his fingers gripping the device as tightly as he could, the plastic squeaking under his fingertips. Static on the line crackled a little as he moved, throwing his head back in an attempt to swallow the painful lump in his throat, the ceiling lights burning into his retinas.

“Killian,” Will prompted his team mate over the line, concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

Killian sighed again, licking his bottom lips as a breath caught in his throat and he felt the sting of fresh tears pricking at his eyelids. “There’s been an accident,” he whimpered, gulping hard.

“An accident?” Will repeated. “What? Where? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Will,” Killian lied. He wasn’t fine. It felt like he never would be again.

“Then what the bloody hell is going on?” Will asked quickly, insisting on an answer from his team mate. 

Killian froze, his tongue running over the ridges of his teeth in the back of his mouth, unable to form the words. Even the inside of his cheeks hurt, his saliva glands producing a sudden gush of spit, eager to soothe the coarse texture of his throat. Killian heard a noise behind him and turned to see two nurses covering Liam’s body with a white sheet whilst another collected what was left of his leather suit from the floor. The tears wouldn’t be stopped this time, and Killian coughed out a sob, a sorrowful wail echoing down the phone line.

“Mate,” Will soothed, instantly knowing that something was wrong. “Is it Rosie?” He asked tentatively. Killian had no children of his own, and his niece meant the world to him. She was nearly nine, growing up into a perfect little girl by her mother’s standards, except for the fact she liked to hang out in pit lanes with grown men and was more often than not, covered in grease.

Killian shook his head. “Gods, no,” he breathed, almost relieved, but another wave of tears erupted from his eyes at the thought of having to tell his niece her father was gone.

“Then what is it?” Will urged him, panic in his own voice now. “I can’t help you if-”

“It’s Liam,” Killian said bluntly, heaving a huge breath. “He’s dead.”

“What do you bloody mean, dead?” Will said gruffly, snorting a laugh at the end of his words. “I saw him his morning before he went to meet you.” If Killian didn’t know better he thought he might have heard a small break in the voice of his friend.

“I know.” Killian gulped hard, letting Will process the new information.

“We were tinkering with the bike, and he told me “less gas” in that bloody god awful American way he does.” Will was rambling and Killian knew it, but he let him, content to listen. “It’s that wife of his, invading his Britishness with her American wiles I tell you. None of us are safe, Killian. American women might be dynamite in bed but let them into your life for long enough and you start talking like them, you will. Just like Liam.”

“I know,” Killian agreed softly, but he really hadn’t heard a word his friend had said.

Another silence fell between them, neither knowing what to say. Killian listened to Will’s breathing, increasing in pace and broken by the odd hitch here and there, a sure sign the younger rider was crying. They both knew, from losing friends before, that in their world, no one ever jokes about anyone else being dead. It was a reality they chose to live with every day, dicing with death everytime they got on a bike.

“You went to the track, didn’t you?” Will finally said and Killian could tell it was through a clenched jaw.

“Aye,” Killian nodded, his voice higher than normal.

“And he got on a bloody bike, didn’t he?” Will surmised, Killian nodding as the words entered his ear. Will couldn’t see him of course, but he knew the answer. Killian heard Will scream at the top of his lungs, obviously holding the phone away from his mouth because of the way the sound was muffled, almost distant. 

It was unmistakable frustration, the only way Will knew how to release the feelings he had inside. Liam was more than his team mate’s brother, and he was more than the team mechanic. To him, Liam was like a father figure, his own having been absent his entire life, and he had fallen into the Jones family as if he had always belonged. The only thing Will had ever been given by his own father was his surname, and he cared more about the Jones name than he liked to admit, but he didn’t have to. Killian knew.

“Why?” Will screamed, making Killian pinch his eyes closed even harder. His head pounded from crying and he felt dehydrated, the hospital too warm for his brother to be so cold. “Why Liam? He has a daughter, and a wife, Killian.”

“I know,” Killian cried, his words almost not there. “How do I tell Elsa, Will? He promised to never race again.”

“Who was he racing?” Will demanded, a little more accusation in his tone that Killian would have liked. “Because when I get my hands on them-”

“Me.” Killian’s words stopped Will dead, another silence. “He was racing me.”

Will had no answer and Killian didn’t need one. He felt guilty enough as it was, and his friend knew it. Will had the courtesy to hold his tongue at least, and Killian would be forever grateful for that.

“I thought, for his birthday,” Killian began, but his words trailed off, his own mind berating him for such a foolish idea. “He hit the bump, you know the one on turn twelve, and he was braking, God, Liam, why were you braking!” Killian growled, slamming his hand into the desk he was leaning on. His lips pulled tight, the skin around them turning white with his anger. Nobody braked there, especially not on the blemished bump of tarmac that every rider knew to avoid. It always caused a crash, without a doubt, and Liam had been in front of Killian’s bike when he saw the glow of red indicating his brother’s late braking.

“Did he hit the wall?” Will asked. Under normal circumstances, a normal person would have been offended by such a question, but for a racer it was second nature. Their whole lives were about scrutinising accidents to make sure they didn’t happen again. “I’m sorry,” Will apologised quickly, realising the insensitive words.

“It’s alright, mate,” Killian assured him quietly. “The bike hit the wall,” Killian told him, closing his eyes, the scene playing out behind his eyelids as if it had just happened. 

Liam had hit the bump under braking, losing control of his bike at speed, which had slid out from under him. It had tumbled across the tarmac, sliding across the trap of gravel and coming to a stop as it hit the wall of tyres at the outer edge of the track. Under normal circumstances, a rider would lift his legs and ride the tarmac on his back, the built in suit protection of his leathers insuring his head was held aloft and away from the ground. Only, in this instance, it meant that Liam’s head and neck were parallel to the ground when he skidded into the wreckage of his bike and severed his spinal cord instantly.

Killian didn’t have to be a doctor to know what had happened to his brother. Neither did Will.

“Alright, mate, that’s enough,” Will said softly. He could sense Killian’s reluctance to revisit anymore details of the accident, so stopped his friend mid story. He was met with a thankful sigh and the sound of more tears. “I’m coming to you now, alright?”

“I need to tell Elsa,” Killian sobbed pathetically. 

“We’ll tell her,” Will told him firmly. “Together. Liam was my family, too.” 

“You’re a good man, Scarlet,” Killian said, a small smile playing across his lips. 

“Don’t go telling everyone,” Will scoffed, always falling on humour when he was upset, hurt, or distressed. Killian didn’t laugh, instead blinking away yet more tears. “I’ll be right there,” Will promised and then the call ended, the click of a disconnected line and the dial tone ringing through Killian’s ears.

\--

Killian would never forget the look on Elsa’s face when she pulled open the door and stared at his tear stained features. She knew. Killian didn’t know how, but she knew, her hand clutching the fabric of her shirt right above her heart as she shook her head from side to side just as he had when the doctors had given up on his brother. He was at her side instantly, all of his worries about telling her disappearing as he caught her before she hit the hardwood floor.

Killian wrapped his arms around his sister-in-law, Will quickly stepping over the bundle of people in the doorway and heading to the lounge where he knew Hayden-Rose would be playing her games console, no doubt trying to beat her father’s lap times on the computer game version of their life. Only, their life wasn’t a game, and Liam had no extra lives to fall back on. He was gone, and somehow, Elsa knew.

“I can’t breathe,” she sobbed, clawing at her throat and Killian release his hold on her just long enough to pull back and look at her face. “I’m going to be sick,” she gasped, jumping to her feet and rushing up the stairs. Killian watched her go, closing the front door quietly and looking down to his feet.

Will appeared, poking his head out of the lounge at the sound of Elsa’s footsteps pounding the staircase. He gave Killian a look, and followed his gaze, the sound of Liam’s wife retching into the toilet bowl echoing through the upstairs of the house. Killian licked his lips nervously, reaching for the railing as he took a step onto the stairs, knowing that what was about to transpire was worse than watching his brother die.

Elsa was sobbing into the toilet when he found her, face pressed to the cold, white plastic seat and her eyes tightly closed. Her whole body rocked with her crying, her knees tucked under herself at a strange angle that seemed almost impossible. She hugged the bowl, arms stretching around the porcelain like it would comfort her, and she didn’t move when Killian approached. Her wails bounced off the white tiles, vibrating through his ears, breaking his already damaged heart into even more pieces.

“I’m sorry,” he offered weakly, reaching out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“How?” Elsa demanded suddenly, her tone changing and taking him back. She was angry, he had never seen her like this before, and she pushed herself to her feet with a determination that frightened him. Killian rose with her, taking a step back, jaw slack with shock. “How?” she repeated on a growl.

“Elsa, I don’t think-”

“Tell me,” she insisted, advancing on him. Killian stumbled backwards, quickly shooting a glance behind his feet when he stepped back into the hallway. “Was he racing?” she sobbed, her tone changing instantly and her face erupting into sadness again. “Killian, tell me he wasn’t on a damn bike.”

She was begging him to tell her. She wanted - no needed - to know that her husband hadn’t promised her his racing days were over only to get on a bike and kill himself. Killian looked at her, his bottom lip quivering over the look in her eyes, gulping down another lump in his throat. He tilted his head sideways, offering her a silent apology that he knew would never be enough.

“No,” Elsa mumbled defiantly. Her hand found her face, fingers stretching over her furrowed brow and she began to pace back and forth in front of him. “It doesn’t make sense,” she frowned, her words catching in her cries. “He promised, Killian. He promised.”

“I know,” Killian said for the millionth time that afternoon, sick of his own pathetic response.

“Who was he racing?” Elsa demanded, back to angry. She dropped her hand to her side, stalling her pacing and turning to face him once more. “Was it Cassidy? That bastard.” Elsa’s anger was directed instantly, and for a second, Killian felt sorry for Neal, who had only ever been a rival on the track. He had played no part in Liam’s death. That had all been on him.

“It was me,” Killian croaked. His words hung in the back of his throat, catching in the dryness of his mouth. He coughed and she looked at him, narrowing her stare and another sob she was unable to stop tumbling from her mouth. “I thought, for his birthday-” Killian began, but his words were cut short by a cracking noise as Elsa’s hand made contact with his face.

It stung, her palm flat and broad against the side of his cheek, but Killian deserved nothing less. He turned his head away with the slap, unable to look back at the woman he had widowed. Hot, pin like prickles spread over his face where he was sure Elsa had left a mark, but he simply closed his eyes and tried to drown out the rage filled crying of the woman in front of him. He understood her fury, like no one else, so when she screeched like an injured animal and slapped him again, he let her.

And again. And again. Until her hands balled into tight fists and her abuse turned into punches, raining down against the hard planes of his torso. He stood stoic, letting Elsa pound against his body, blow after blow weakening as she ran out of energy and slumped her body against his. Killian wrapped his arms around her, her crying turning to uncontrollable screaming that pierced his ears, her last remaining anger leaving her body as she pressed her face into his shirt and clutched the material in her hands.

All he could do was hold her. It was more than he felt he deserved in that moment, but it was strangely comforting, too. Killian’s hand found Elsa’s back and he let out a sigh, resting the side of his face to the softness of her white blonde hair, braided as always, the end of it tickling at his hands. Elsa sniffed, shaking her head, her forehead rubbing at Killian’s shirt, but she didn’t say anything more.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Killian cried, his own tears resurfacing and rolling down his cheeks.

“Then don’t,” Elsa mumbled into his shirt, taking a huge breath. “It’s not real. This is a dream. Any minute I’ll wake up,” she sniveled.

“I wish that were true, lass,” Killian wept with her. 

He could tell her not to cry, and that things would be alright, but he would be lying. Their lives had changed forever. Elsa was a widow at thirty-two, with a daughter approaching nine years old who would never know of all the things Liam had planned for her. He wanted to watch her grow, become the first female MotoGP champion, and follow in the family tradition despite being a different gender. They were going to blow gender roles right out of the racing world, but not now. Now Hayden-Rose would only know the day her father left her to pursue her dreams alone.

“How am I supposed to tell Rosie?” Elsa sagged again, needing his embrace more than ever. Killian sighed, his grip around the woman in his arms tightening. He had no answer for her, but he was pretty sure, as he spied the blank expression of his niece over the shoulder of his sister-in-law, Hayden-Rose already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you like my writing, please consider buying me a ko-fi @ Ko-fi.com/artisticwriter


	3. Chapter 3

Emma Swan had endured. Her life had been a rollercoaster of ups and downs beginning with the death of her mother when she was just five years old, something that set her father into a protective frenzy. She could barely breathe with how much he loved her, not letting her out of his sight for even a second. Emma woke up, she went to school, and she came home. Anything else in between was always under her father’s watchful eye down to every minute of the day.

Emma’s family were the Nolan’s and they had carved their name out in the motorcycle world by making some of the best quality crash helmets any racer could own since 1988. David Nolan had started the company after his twin brother, James, had been killed during the famous Isle of Man Tourist Trophy race. The TT, as it is known, is one of the most dangerous motorcycle races in the world, having taken the lives of over two hundred riders since it began in 1907. James’ helmet had been poor quality, the impact of his head with the asphalt at such a high-speed something he would never recover from.

David and James had a bond, a twin bond, that was severed the instant James’ heart had stopped. David had been unable to fly to the Isle of Man that week because of Emma’s school commitments, but he knew the second his brother had died without even so much as a phone call. The TT is one of the most gruelling road races of its kind. Thirty-eight miles of winding roads around the island that have killed both riders and spectators because of the unpredictability of the circuit, weather, and unmaintained terrain, and now James was just another statistic.

High velocity impact trauma resulting in death. That was how her uncle died, officially, on paper. Emma remembers that day like it was yesterday because it hadn’t been long after her mother’s death. Her father’s soul already crushed from the loss of his wife, she wasn’t sure he could take anymore, so she let him smother her for a time, knowing that it was all that was keeping him going. The Nolan crash helmet company was founded some months later and it gave David a renewed sense of purpose that he needed more than anything.

Emma, on the other hand, although happy for her father, was lost. She wasn’t like other girls. Her whole life she had been allowed to do whatever she liked, as long as it was safe, but that wasn’t what Emma wanted. She wanted excitement, thrills, action, and so, through contacts her family company had made in the business, she began riding motorbikes. 

It was exhilarating. The wind in her hair as it pulled strands from beneath her leathers and whipped at the shaded visor of her helmet. The way her spine shook as she leaned over the fuel tank, the vibrations of the engine shaking every bone in her body, and the way her heart beat in time with the movement of the pistons between her legs. It was everything Emma had wanted, her escape, her refuge, and when road bikes became too mundane, she set her sights on bigger prizes.

It didn’t take Emma long to get her foot on the racing ladder. She dropped her father’s name a few times, his prestige enough for people to take her seriously when, as a tiny, blonde haired wisp of a woman, she had guaranteed her abilities to some of the sponsors. And she was as good as she promised, at first in small time with the odd race here or there when she could slip away from her father’s protective net he had cast around her life.

But she was a one of a kind and it quickly became evident just how brilliant Emma Nolan was.

She changed her name, without telling her father, to continue to soar under his radar. Emma knew that it wouldn’t be long before somebody in the racing world put two and two together and realised, that with the surname Nolan, she was David’s daughter. She changed it to Swan in the late 90’s and continued to race her way through the ranks just like she had dreamed of.

The world of motorcycle racing is not like any other sport on the planet. It is unique in the fact that there is no gender split, or prejudice, and both men and women race on equal terms. It’s unusual to see many women in the sport, and Emma wanted to change that. The lowest class, Moto3, was a breeze. The small engines were no match for Emma’s ability, her weight distribution almost perfect because of her size against the power of the 125cc engine, and soon she was being headhunted for Moto2 before she even had a title under her belt.

Everybody wanted a piece of Emma Swan. She was approached by no less than four different teams in 2000, all wanting to represent who they felt would be the first female MotoGP championship winner. It had never been done before, and whilst Emma couldn’t wait to rise up to the next level in the Grand Prix competition, she never would.

Ducati, another big name in the race scene, decided to offer Emma the best incentive for her abilities. They were also one of the only teams to not use Nolan helmets for all their riders, so Emma’s secret would be hidden for a while longer. She wasn’t scared of her father finding out, but she wanted to be in the top ranks before he did, because then there would be no way back for her and he would have to support her. Maybe it was a little bit like blackmail, but Emma knew her father wouldn’t be able to cut her career short if she was so invested.

Ducati already had an established team of riders, and even though they were not winning big in 1999, their two front runners had won them enough to stay just above last place. Neal Cassidy and Oswald ‘Oz’ Walsh were the one/two riders for Ducati, and the season had just ended when Emma was signed. The second the guys laid eyes on their new team mate they were impressed with both her beauty and her talent, and when she gave them both the flirtatious cold shoulder, they were smitten. That was, until pre-trial times showed that Emma was consistently faster than Walsh and the team decided to bump him to third rider status before the season had even begun.

The team that Ducati announced for the 2000 season was Neal Cassidy and Emma Swan and it wasn’t long before Ducati was a team up in the top tier of Moto2 once more, and it wasn’t long before, in the thrill of winning, Emma and Neal became an item. Neal was more than just her teammate. He had become Emma’s first love, sharing every win with her, celebrating in both the pit lane and in the privacy of their trailers. It was whirlwind by romance standards and in the buzz, Emma was blindsided by Walsh’s growing greed right under her nose.

Before long, Emma was at one with the bike given to her by her team, and was surpassing Cassidy in every race. Cassidy was becoming second to not only his second rider, but also his girlfriend, something that did not escape the attention of Walsh. He had never had a problem coming second to Cassidy and was happy to take the second seat. He still got paid, he was still making money from sponsors, but when Emma started winning, less and less people knew his name. 

Walsh wanted to be back where he was. His revenue was drying up and where other people were being offered contracts for the next season, he was not. No one came knocking on his door, no one was calling his cell phone, and the only way he was going to get his name back out there, was if Emma wasn’t racing anymore. She was Ducati’s top rider and if Walsh wanted to be back in the team’s good graces, something had to be done.

\--

“Think about it,” Walsh whispered into the shell on Neal’s ear as the music around them throbbed out its beat. “I’m just saying-”

“I know what you’re saying,” Neal snapped, a little irritated. Walsh had been going on and on about getting his second seat back all night and it was starting to wear Neal’s nerves thin.

“Then _listen_ to what I’m saying,” Walsh added, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “If she can’t race then that means _we_ can.”

Neal studied his fellow rider with a raised eyebrow. “Obviously,” Neal said with a roll of his eyes. He rolled his fingers over the cold outside of the tumbler glass he was caressing idly, the drink inside starting to warm under his touch. “That’s how race politics work, Oz.”

“Don’t you miss it?” Walsh continued eagerly, leaning forward over the grubbing dive bar table between them. “The crowds chanting your name, the feeling you get when they wave that chequered flag for you.”

Neal gave Walsh a sideways sneer and snorted a laugh through his nose. “How would you know what that feels like?”

Walsh ground his teeth in frustration, his fist balling beside his now empty glass. “I’m just saying-”

“Damn it, Oz, I know what you are saying!” Neal roared. The bar fell silent, all eyes on the two men huddled in the corner for a few seconds before resuming its usual activity none the wiser.

“Do you hear me though?” Walsh insisted desperately.

“Loud and clear,” Neal scoffed. He threw his head back and poured the last remaining remnants of his drink into his mouth, swallowing the tiny amount with disappointment. “What do you propose?”

Walsh grinned, his teammate’s attention full grabbed. “You know these piss tests they make us take?” He nodded eagerly. Neal glanced his way with a narrowed stare. “You can’t race without a clean result, right?”

Neal laughed in the back of his throat, a grunt escaping his mouth. “You know as well as I do, Emma would never jeopardize the chance to race.”

“Not willingly.” Walsh’s words drew Neal’s full attention, his tongue tracing the point of his canine.

“Go on,” Neal nodded.

“The next two races are back to back, so there is no time in between to celebrate a win properly. At the next race, you let Emma win,” Walsh continued quickly, his finger drawing insignificant lines along the dark surface of the table.

“No one _lets_ Emma Swan win,” Neal laughed.

“And then, during the after party, she drinks too much, fails the piss test and you and I get a seat upgrade.” Walsh’s grin was pure elation, like a chimp with a banana.

“Emma would never drink before a race,” Neal said definitely, waving a finger at the barman for another drink.

“Not intentionally,” Walsh shrugged. “But maybe her boyfriend can persuade her to take a sip.” His hand dug into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He pressed it to the table, sliding it across to Neal who eyed it suspiciously before lifting one of the flaps and spying the small pill inside. It was oval in shape, chalky and would easily disappear into the bubbles of a celebratory glass of champagne.

“Maybe I can,” Neal agreed in a small voice, a grin spreading over his features as he screwed the paper back up in his palm.

\--

It wasn’t a plan that Neal thought they could get away with, but it did appeal to him. Neal had already been approached by Ducati’s MotoGP division for the next season, depending on how he finished his current season. So the real question was, did he want to race alongside his friend, who he knew he could beat and would win a title easily, or his girlfriend, who was a far better rider than he ever would be? The plan was simple and his only role would be getting Emma to partake in his drink. She would never have one of her own but she might be tempted by a charismatic smile and a boyish wink from her boyfriend. And she was.

After winning the mid-season race in first place, the team threw a party for her success and Emma was more than happy to attend, sipping bottled water for the entire evening. The next race was the very next day, a gruelling mid-season back to back that tested the limits of every rider on the track. A race was physically and mentally demanding on every rider, so Emma had established early in her career that she would do her utmost to ensure victory each time.

If only she was as strong as she thought she was.

Emma trusted too easily and it was perhaps her biggest flaw in character, something she had inherited from her mother. Walsh had approached them with two glasses, handing one to Neal with a slight nod. A kind face and a smile from Neal was all she needed to lift the glass to her lips and take a sip of the bubbling champagne, a celebratory tipple Neal said she deserved. It tasted good, fizzing on her tongue, but when she swallowed there was an aftertaste of something she didn’t recognise. She had searched her boyfriend’s face for an answer, but it became blurred through the haze of her eyes and the next thing Emma remembered was her disqualification from the next race.

Heartbroken didn’t describe how she felt. Rules were rules, and somehow, despite two extra tests that she insisted on, Emma’s urine analysis said that she was under the influence of drugs. It was impossible. Emma didn’t do drugs. She was a highly tuned athlete; she ran, she swam, she cycled and barely even drank alcohol. And then it all came back to her in a flash of blinding white light.

Walsh had handed Neal the drink. Neal had persuaded her to take a sip.

Before Emma had time to confront them both about how they had sabotaged her, there was an accident. Neal had taken the first rider spot, her rightful place, and Walsh had taken second, but in his arrogance had managed to high side his bike not even halfway through the race. A twist of his wrist had increased his acceleration out of the corner too quickly, his back wheel losing traction before suddenly regaining it again, the torque along the bike’s axis enough to throw Walsh clean over the handlebars. 

He would have survived, had he not held onto the throttle, wrenching his shoulder out of its socket and rendering it useless. His limb flopped around as he had flown through the air, landing on the asphalt head first with an almighty thud right into the path of his own bike. Walsh had no chance. The motorbike was still at full speed and his leatherbound ragdoll body was no match for the force applied to it on impact. 

Walsh’s death didn’t matter to Emma, but it did to the team. They needed a second rider to finish the season and when asked, Emma said she would have to think about it. First, she wanted to confront Neal, her so-called boyfriend, about how and why he and Walsh had felt it prevalent to wreck her chances at a championship title. She got it. 

_“No one remembers second place, and I sure as hell ain’t coming second to you. When the season is over, the only name people will be chanting from the stands is Cassidy. Not Swan.”_

The more Emma listened to him the more she realised what kind of man her boyfriend was. He was small and manipulative and he would even stoop so low as to blame a dead man, insinuating that Walsh was responsible for her disqualification during the last race. His true colours showed on his face, in his excusatory words, and Emma was nothing if not good at reading people.

She could spot a scumbag a mile away, and Neal was definitely that.

Even worse, he looked her dead in the eye and told her that no one would believe her. It was her word against his and he wasn’t saying a word that might jeopardize his race career.

Emma never raced professionally after that.

It took her two years to find her passion again. Emma felt cheated by the racing world and turned her back on it, but the bug never left her. There was something missing in her life. It was more than a want, it was a basic need to be going fast again. A need to feel the engine against her thighs and her chest pressed against the fuel tank again, body as flat as it could be so that there was almost no wind resistance to slow her down. 

Emma missed bikes, the smell of fuel and oil, even the way her cheeks got squashed inside of her helmet, but she couldn't go back to racing, not all the while Neal Cassidy was on the circuits. Two years had been enough time for Neal to make it up to MotoGP and for Emma to leave behind what had happened between them, but the yearning for bikes never left her and she spent the next year training to be a mechanic.

It was easier for Emma than it was for most. She knew bikes like the back of her hand, inside and out, and she could take them apart and put them back together again with her eyes closed. Mechanic school was a piece of cake. Getting a job after she graduated was the hard part. Neal hadn’t just sullied her good name in racing, but he had managed to get her ghosted by the entire race world, and nobody would hire a junkie. Luckily for her, she had completed all of her qualifications in the surname of Nolan, so all she needed was a little help.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments about this fic - I have been reading them and they make me smile so much! Due to recently getting a puppy, my schedule for writing has been somewhat slow, but now he is old enough, I hope to get more wording done :D This is the chapter where our two lovebirds meet, so I hope you all enjoy it! :D

Three weeks. Liam had been dead for less than a month, and already the team was hiring a replacement. Logically, Killian knew they would have to eventually. There wasn’t a race team out there that could manage without a team of mechanics to fix what the riders broke race after race. Most riders were also mechanics, and it was a sensible field for retired riders who still needed to hear the squeal of tyres on the asphalt, but you couldn’t be a rider and a mechanic, Killian knew that. Logically.

Logic didn’t bring his brother back. Logic didn’t help him when his team needed a mid season photoshoot to happen before he returned back to full time racing. The time it took Killian to get kitted out in his leather suit was twice as long as it took for the photographer to get his shot. Killian Jones and Will Scarlet, sitting atop their bikes, both faking the smiles they knew the fans wanted to see took far less time than either of them anticipated and gave them the rest of the day morning to do whatever they liked.

Killian headed out to the team owned practice track to clear his head. It was quiet this time of day and not many people used it during race season anyway, so he had taken his bike out there to think whilst on his extended leave of compassion. He had needed time, more time than allowed, but the team understood and let him. Killian had immense balance, every rider did, and he would often do laps at what most people would consider a snail's pace just to hear the roar of his engine and his tyres on the tarmac. The bike would speak to him and he would answer, giving her exactly what she wanted and opening her up on the home straight.

Only, today was different. When Killian arrived at the track, someone else was already there, someone he hadn’t seen before, and they were thrashing the hell out of a motorbike with a matte black paint job and pristine brushed steel trimmings. Killian wandered over to the start line, the leather pants he was wearing squeaking with every step. His leather jacket was unzipped and his henley underneath had the top three buttons undone because of the almost stifling heat that beat down upon the track.

He waited, making sure that his bike was secured on its kickstand before the mystery rider came flying around the last bend at breakneck speed. They sat up, dropping a gear and ignoring the protest of the engine as the bike slowed down, nearing the worn, patchy paintwork of the start finish line. Killian bent down and placed his helmet on the ground next to his feet, promptly straightening back up, crossing one foot over the other and leaning on the seat of his bike.

Killian recognised the bike instantly. It was a Suzuki Hayabusa, one of the fastest road legal motorbikes in existence, but it had been heavily customised, most likely to reduce weight and increase speed. It purred, the highly advanced liquid cooled, four cylinder, 16 valve engine much more powerful than most cars. The Hayabusa had a top speed over over 390 km/h, and he had no doubt that it had been hitting those speeds, especially with such light cargo. Killian frowned as the bike approached, the rider almost shaken from the seat as they revved the engine once more.

Silence fell over the practice paddock as the mystery rider cut the engine and kicked out the bike stand. Killian watched, fascinated by the way the rider moved, dressed head to toe in black leathers that matched their bike. They were shorter than he was, thinner and more shapely and as they kicked their leg over the bike, slid to the floor, and pulled the crash helmet off their head, Killian realised why. 

She was a woman. A beautiful one at that.

Her hair was silky golden, tumbling from where it had been stuffed into her helmet like it had just been combed smooth when she shook her head. It framed her face and pulled his gaze to her green eyes that glinted in the sunlight, even as she squinted. Killian felt his heart speed up at her presence, his skin prickling in his leathers at the sight of her in her race gear, every curve accented to his view. She took a large breath and smiled at him, a cock sure grin of pride and flirtatiousness that had him shifting his weight when his groin began to tingle.

Killian didn’t know who she was or where she had come from. The track was restricted for employees only, so she had to at least work for the team to be able to be here, and the thought of that made him mirror her grin. If she worked here, he would see her more often, but who was she? She moved in slow motion, sauntering over to him, the sounds of the world fading away from him as he narrowed his focus onto her and only her, a lump forming in his throat that he desperately tried to swallow.

He didn’t mean to, but a low hum of appreciation escaped Killian’s mouth before he could stop it as he dragged his gaze up from her feet to her face. He fixed his stare on her mouth, the gently plumpness of her lips and the slight dimple in her chin underneath that gave her a cuteness that Killian was sure would be his downfall. She held her helmet at her side, swinging the matte black gear in time with her walk until she was finally within earshot of him and her perfumed scent overpowered him, cutting through the darkness of his mourning like a break in the storm.

“You know, I can get you a picture if you’d like?”

“I’m sorry?” Killian blinked, clearing his thoughts with a shake of his head.

“Of me,” she said with a slight chuckle. “So you don’t have to keep staring.” She arched her brow at him, a sideways smile telling him he had been caught.

Killian blushed, the heat creeping into his cheeks before he had time to look away. He sighed a nervous laugh, his hand reaching up to paw at the patch of skin behind his ear, a trepidatious habit that made him wish he had put on his helmet already.

“My apologies, lass,” Killian finally said, dropping his gaze to his feet. He pushed himself off of his bike, the kickstand groaning with the release of weight, and extended his hand to her. “Killian Jones,” he said smoothly, his lips ticking up at the corners when she took his hand.

“I know who you are,” she said firmly, gripping his hand. The warmth of his skin was electrifying and sent a shiver down her spine. He didn’t pull his hand from hers, and neither did she, his long, slender fingers gripping her almost to her wrist.

“Is that right?” Killian gave her a raised brow, intrigued by her boldness. She nodded but gave no words, simply biting her bottom lip and pulling her hand from his. Killian missed the contact immediately, the shine of light she was offering him taken away, the blemish of losing his brother quickly seeping back into his being.

“I’m sorry,” she offered gently, as if reading his mind. “Liam Jones was one of my inspirations as a kid.”

“Aye, mine too,” Killian uttered softly.

“He’s the reason I got into racing,” she told him honestly. “I wanted to be as good as him. Going fast wasn’t enough, you know?”

Killian nodded in agreement, a smile forming across his face at the memory of his brother. “It warms my heart to know he inspired someone other than myself.” She smiled at him, that warming presence Killian was already addicted to flooding back into him. “So,” he began, nudging his head towards her bike behind her. “You race?”

“I did,” the woman smiled back at him. “Moto 2.”

“Moto 2,” Killian repeated impressed. “Big bikes, big names. Maybe I know yours,” he prompted boyishly. He scratched behind his ear for the second time, a salacious smirk playing on his lips.

“Maybe you do,” she shrugged, her eyes flitting to his lips. 

She moved, the sway in her hips deliberate as she walked past him to his bike. Killian followed her movement, turning on the spot and letting his gaze fall to the stretch of leather over her behind. Normally leather would be unflattering, but somehow she pulled it off, her fitted gear holding his attention for far longer than it should have. Killian inhaled, his hands balling into fists at his sides, his fingers itching to touch the siren in front of him. He waited, enthralled as she wet her lips and whistled at the sight of his bike.

“Yamaha YZF R1. This is nice,” she almost sang, extending the words as she ran her fingers along the curve of the fuel tank. “I like the blue.” She looked up at that moment, a flash of emerald making Killian’s heart almost stop. “It matches your eyes,” she rasped, locking eyes with his.

Killian swallowed hard, suddenly much hotter in his leathers than he should be. The way she was caressing his bike was too much, her fingers smoothing over the high gloss paintwork as gently as the breeze. Killian’s heart hadn’t beat this fast since he won his first race and he hadn’t realised how much he missed it until now.

“What’s your name, love?” Killian asked again, his voice low and slightly hoarse from the dryness that had taken root in his throat.

The woman smiled and unzipped her black leather jacket, flicking her hair over her shoulder and leaning over the seat of his bike. Her elbows pushing into the soft leather and it was Killian’s undoing. He couldn’t help but stare, her breasts nestled comfortably in the confines of her low cut red top creating a delicious cleavage for his view. She was doing it on purpose, he was certain, and it was only when she spoke again that he was able to drag his eyes back to hers.

“Tell you what,” she began, a playful smirk on her face. “I’ll race you for it.”

“For your name?” Killian frowned, quirking his eyebrow at her.

“Why not?” she shrugged with a grin. “One lap. If you cross the finish line first, I’ll tell you what it is.”

Beguiled, Killian let a soft laugh escape his mouth. He bent down to retrieve his helmet, testing the weight of it in his hand before looking back up to her. “And if you win?” 

She sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.” Her smile reappeared, lighting up her face in the infectious way Killian noticed it always did, making him mirror it immediately.

Killian licked his lips, his smile fading as he tilted his head to one side. “Are there any rules, love?” he asked her, his tone more business and serious.

She hummed in thought, looking around the deserted track paddock. It was just them and their bikes, hers far faster than his as a stock machine, but the modifications they both had done to their bikes put them on the same level. Or so she hoped. 

“No rules,” she grinned, righting herself back into an upright position. Before Killian had time to object to his loss of view, and with a gentle squeak of leather, she lifted her leg and straddled his bike. Her delicate hands gripped his handlebars and she gave them a squeeze with a sigh, knowing he was watching her every move. “But I think I want to ride your bike,” she said softly, accenting the last words as a euphemism. 

Killian’s lips ticked into a playful smirk. “You won’t win on my bike,” he told her through the smile he was unable to shift. He emphasised his point by motioning to his bike with his helmet.

“Won’t I?” She narrowed her eyes, lifting her helmet to rest on the fuel tank. She shook her hair back again, tilting her head so that she could slide on her helmet and buckled the under chin strap. “You know what?” She muttered, her cheeks squished into the helmet. “I’ve decided. If I win, I keep your bike. That sound like enough of a challenge for you?”

With a last smirk she pushed her visor down into place, the shadowy black plastic blocking Killian’s view of her gorgeous green eyes and snapping him back to reality. The roar of his engine followed as she turned the key and it sparked to life, the deep throaty rumble of his shorter racing exhaust pipe filling the paddock. She zipped up her jacket and leaned forward, twisting the throttle so the engine revved in the familiar growl Killian could swear turned into a purr under her attention.

With a kick of her slighting heeled matte black boots, the stand peg sprang back into position against the side of the engine, and she was off, throttle fully open and the bike rising up onto it’s back wheel like a well trained stallion. She held the wheelie for a long while, finally dropping the bike back onto two wheels and returning to the start finish line with a few final revs of the engine.

Killian was in love, he was pretty sure. It was hardly possibly to describe the feelings he was experiencing as anything else. She mesmerized him, called to him through the sound of the engine and even though he didn’t even know her name, he felt like he had known her forever. She knew bikes and it was clear by the way she handled his that she could tame even the mightiest of beasts. She revved his bike’s engine again, one foot barely on the tarmac by her toes, body hugging the fuel tank as she focused on the road ahead of her.

Killian finally willed his feet to move, heading for her bike, the engine so shiny he wasn’t sure it had even been ridden in yet. A quick inspection of the tyres told him it had been, no presence of bobbling to suggest they were new. Maybe she just liked a meticulous bike? The rest of it was pristine, the dull black paint normally prone to blemishes and smudges absolutely clear of both. 

With a careful lift of his leg, Killian mounted the Hayabusa, kicking the stand back into its resting position and righting the bike. Another rev of his bike told him she was growing impatient, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t keen to know her name, so with a turn of the key he started her engine and the second roar of a bike reverberated around the paddock.

Her bike felt foreign between his legs, but welcomed, the vibrations from the engine causing the muscles in his legs to shake violently in the way he loved. He pulled his helmet down over his head, adjusting the fit so he could see and then walked the bike to the barely visible start line. Beside him she twisted her wrist down again and the engine of his bike screamed out its annoyance at being stationary for so long. Killian slapped his visor down, his world turning a grey through the polarized perspex, and echoed her revs with a twist of his own wrist.

The mystery woman looked to him at the same time as he looked to her, holding up three fingers and then pointing to the road head. Killian nodded, her signal clear; on the third rev they would go. One lap, less that two minutes. 

She revved the bike once, the engine squealing before the sound disappeared into nowhere, the bike between her legs calming. She did it again, and Killian did too, the back wheel of the bike he was riding squirreling a little, a fresh smear of rubber from the tyre appearing on the tarmac. The anticipation between them was almost palpable, both of them lowering their bodies to the fuel tank, getting as close to it as possible for aerodynamics and increased speed. And then a third rev echoed out across the track and the squeal of tyres was all that could be heard as they both took off for the first corner.

The Hayabusa had more torque, tearing off the start line with a ground shaking rumble. Killian tucked in his knees and elbows, the wind rushing over his shape like he wasn’t even there. The Yamaha wasn’t far behind, the woman’s lighter weight nothing for the huge capacity engine, and Killian cast a quick glance to under his armpit to judge the distance between them. She was good, using the inner racing line to cut up the inside of him, whizzing past him as he sat up to assist his braking towards the first corner.

She had no fear, barely leaving herself enough time to brake efficiently as they approached the bend, her tiny frame leaning into it despite her lack of knee protection. Her knee was millimetres from the ground, the bike travelling at around 128 km/h, but she had no reservations about accelerating out of the bend and leaving him behind. Killian was barely out of the corner himself when he saw she was swinging over to the other side, knee down around the next bend, the familiar sound of a gear change echoing through his ears.

Killian focused on the back of his bike, the unknown woman riding it handling it like she hadn’t ever ridden anything else. The bike bowed to her every command, even when she pushed it to its limits down the straights. It was here Killian could catch up, the power he wielded in the Hayabusa far greater than the Yamaha, and he slipped up the inside of her and overtook her with ease. But his bike was heavy, and it took a longer time to accelerate out of corners, so it wasn’t long before the blonde beauty was leaving him in her dust once more.

The track had an ‘s’ bend about a third of the way around, something that ever rider had to slow down to almost a stop for. It was tight, and there was a straight approaching it, so Killian used the opportunity to zoom past her in the hopes he could dominate the narrow section. He was wrong. She was a speed demon, or just full out crazy, but she managed to slip the 379 lb machine right past him, their thighs brushing when they were upright in the middle part of the meanouvre. She even had time to look over to him, and even though Killian couldn’t see her face through her visor, he was sure she was smiling.

Neither were in their racing wear, and that would slow them both down, so the rest of the race would be down to their ability as racers. Who was the most brave? This track had a few notorious sections, Killian knew that better than anyone and had recently learned the hard way that no one was immune to failure, regardless of ability. Liam was a far better rider than he could ever hope to be and he had been snatched from humanity in the blink of an eye. Maybe that was why, even with the faster bike, Killian took his time, being more than cautious around the twists and turns that made up the track, losing time in hesitation as the mystery woman sailed to a victory.

There was less than a wheel length in it as they crossed the finish line, both throttles fully open, engines screaming to deafening volumes. They both sat back up on the cool down lap, allowing the bikes to roll around the track and their racing hearts to return to normal. With the engines idling on the start finish line, they both pulled off their helmets at the same time. Again her hair tumbled effortlessly over her shoulders whilst Killian’s looked like he had been pulled through a hedge, adorably sticking out in all directions. 

“Woo!” He yelled over the sound of their engines, a boyish grin on his face, cheeks pinked from adrenaline. “What a rush!”

“Yeah!” She screeched, slapping the fuel tank on Killian’s bike like she was praising a horse.

“You,” he pointed at her, losing his words. “I-.”

“Did you enjoy losing?” She panted, her own adrenaline speeding up her heart.

“To you? Absolutely! You’re a bloody brilliant rider, love,” Killian offered, catching his breath. 

“And how did your bike look like from behind?” She quipped with a wink. “Bet it never looked so good, right?”

“I wouldn’t know, love,” Killian grinned, revisiting the now imprinted image of her perfectly shaped rear as she sat astride his bike. “I wasn’t looking at the bike.”

Killian couldn’t tell at first if the rosy tint to her cheeks was from her blush or her tight fitting helmet, but when she averted her eyes shyly, he knew it was the former. It made him smile, cheeky and juvenile, just like the way she had somehow made him feel when the last three weeks had been nothing but empty.

“Might I add that the front is just as beautiful.” When she looked back at him, Killian raised an eyebrow, tracing the ridges of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she muttered through her smile, nodding reassuringly.

It was Killian’s turn to blush, thankfully mostly hidden behind his already reddened cheeks, only the tips of his slightly pointed elven ears giving away his true feelings. He averted his eyes, focusing on the ignition key in front of him, his vision shaking with the motion of the bike. “Can I ask you something?” He said suddenly, turning the engine off and looking back over to her.

“As long as it’s not my name,” she smirked. “Loser,” she teased.

“Quite,” Killian laughed. “Do you miss it?” He added, pointing to the bike between his legs. “This thing has more power than any other road legal bike, nearly twice the top speed of that thing,” he pointed to the R1 she was sitting on and she looked down at it. “And yet you beat me,-”

“You let me win,” she cut him off.

“I assure you, love, I did not,” Killian laughed with a defiant shake of his head. “You’re a fantastic rider who clearly misses racing. What happened?”

Her smile faded instantly and she swallowed hard. Killian could see he had tugged at a nerve, possibly one that had been cut and continued to fray over many years, and he immediately regretted his words. Her silence was deafening and when she lowered her head and took a long, steadying breath, Killian felt like the worst person in the world.

“You know what?” He said quickly, slapping his helmet with both hands to gain her attention. She looked over to him and he smiled a weak, apologetic smile. “How about dinner?”

“It’s a bit early for dinner,” she chuckled.

“Tonight,” Killian insisted. “I don’t need to know your name to take you out, do I?” He poked out his bottom lip and pretended to be upset by the prospect of her declining, lifting a cocky eyebrow at her before his lips turned up with a smirk. “And you can still keep the bike,” he added, hand over his heart. 

“Really?” She didn’t believe him, even if she had won it fairly.

“Aye, love, I’m a man of my word.” 

He gave her a smile, one she was sure had won over the hearts of every one of his fans, and one she felt powerless to resist. She studied him for a moment, smitten with his charm and handsome features, something she said she wouldn’t fall for again, but was failing miserably to ignore. She knew him. She had seen the headlines. Killian Jones, World Champion, playboy. She regarded him with a narrowed gaze, unsure if she was just another Killian Jones conquest or if he was genuine. Had the media got him wrong? Was he a man of his word?

“Okay,” she said finally, a coy smile spreading across her face. “Tonight. Do you know how to plan a date?”

“Oh, this is a date now?” He teased with a wry grin. 

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Who knows? Maybe if you play your cards right, we might follow up dinner with a little dessert.”

Killian ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes flicking over her leather clad body still nestled atop the bike he had just lost like she belonged there. What he wouldn’t give to see her in that exact position sans leathers, the sounds she would make with the rumbling engine pressed against her most intimate region something he was having a hard time not imagining. He looked up to her, eyes darkened by his lustful thoughts that made her breath catch in her throat. “I assure you, love, there will be nothing little about dessert.” 


	5. Chapter 5

It was odd. When she had agreed to dinner, she was imagining something that had reflected his pay grade, maybe with a candle burning between them and a security guard at the door. She had known what it was like to date a racer and she was sure that they all thrived on the attention they got from fans. Killian Jones was not like Neal, she could tell that as soon as he had opened his mouth, but the picture the media had painted of him was flawed at best. There were women hanging off his arm in every photo, and she expected him to be a bit more confident. 

What she didn’t expect was for Killian Jones to be a gentleman, in every sense of the word.

He had picked her up, just like he had promised too, on time and with a dashing smile that made her stomach flip into knots. All coherent thought had left her, and the only thing she could focus on was how blue Killian’s eyes were and how warm his hands were on the small of her back as he had led her to his car. He had opened the door for her, kept the conversation light and cheery, and totally ignored the look of confusion on her face when he had driven them to the race track where she has beat him not five hours earlier.

“May I show you to your table?” Killian offered her his hand after he had opened the passenger door of his car.

“You may,” Emma nodded, wrapping her fingers around his and allowing him to pull her out of the car. She frowned, looking around the deserted pit lane before turning to Killian once more. “Are we here for a reason? At the track. The track I beat you at.” She gave his hand a playful tug, stopping him from leading her down the pitlane anymore.

“Very funny,” Killian told her with a shake of his head. He turned, the tips of his ears that slight pink hue that Emma had noticed earlier and already enjoyed seeing.

“I can imagine it’s very painful,” Emma teased. “The memory of her, I mean.”

“Ah,” Killian rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on her hand. “Are you enjoying your new bike?”

“She’s not as fast, but she’s pretty to look at,” Emma stifled her laugh, letting him lead her further down the pit lane.

It was after dark and Emma felt the flutter of butterflies reappear in her stomach. Killian’s silence made her nervous, but when he turned to give her a quick, rakish grin, she relaxed a little. She was excited, more than she ever had been before, the smell of his aftershave wafting down wind and enticing her after him as he rounded the small corner that led out onto the track.

Killian stopped, turning to face her and blocking her view of the start line behind him. He let go of her hand, something Emma missed instantly, and dipped his head to catch her eye. He smiled, warm and inviting but laced with something Emma had never associated with the man stood before her. Killian Jones was nervous, all of his bravado gone, and she watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Your table,” Killian announced, stepping aside and motioning to what was behind him.

It took Emma’s breath. Lit by the floodlights over the start line was a small table, draped with a pristine white tablecloth and with two chairs placed opposite each other. There were two huge glass vases each with a deep red candle inside, both lit and casting a soft shadow over the table with their gently flickering flame. Two wine glasses accompanied the cutlery set out beside each plate and a huge bottle of what looked like champagne was chilling in a bucket of ice.

“Killian Jones, this is-,” Emma began, dumbfounded by the effort he had gone to.

“It’s nothing,” Killian assured her with a gentle grip on her bare elbow. 

“I-,” Emma stuttered as she advanced on the table before her. It was more than she had ever dreamed of, from anyone, so small and intimate yet with such a personal touch, she almost forgot they were both standing at the start line of the raceway.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Killian offered softly, darting around her to pull out the chair for her.

Emma took his offered hand once more, letting him guide her to the dining table with a smile. She sat, all of the hairs on her arm standing on end when Killian lightly brushed his fingers over her shoulders and brought her back to reality.

“Are you alright, lass?” Killian asked, noticing the way her body shivered under his touch. “Are you cold?” Without waiting for her answer he pulled out a blanket that was hanging over the back of her chair, holding it by the edge and letting it unfold under its own weight. He gave it a shake before wrapping it around her, making sure to tuck it in down her back.

“I never expected this,” Emma said suddenly as she smoothed out a small wrinkle in the table cloth. The material was silky smooth under her fingertips and her eyes darted around, taking in everything set out before her.

“What did you expect?” Killian took his place in the seat opposite her and leaned forward until his elbows rested on the table.

“I don’t know,” Emma laughed, blinking in disbelief. “I thought-”

“That I was exactly the man portrayed by the media?” Killian surmised, reaching for the bottle of champagne and giving her a smile. “That I couldn’t win the heart of a pretty lady?”

Emma blushed, her lips ticking up at the corners. “Well, not to bring it up again, but you couldn’t win a race, so you know.” Emma licked her lips, her waterproof lipstick staying exactly where it was when she pouted her lips and rolled her eyes sideways.

Killian narrowed his eyes at her playful remark, loving the way her nose wrinkled just a little when she was smiling. He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle, ignoring the ice cold glass against his palm, before he pushed the cork with his thumb. It popped, making Emma jump. “I didn’t let you win, you know,” he assured her, leaning forward to pour her some champagne. “That really was all you.”

“I know,” Emma smirked, watching the bubbles in her glass dance up and down. “I’m a great rider.”

“And yet, I’ve never heard of you,” Killian teased, lifting his gaze away from his own glass momentarily as he poured.

“How do you know?” Emma shrugged, reaching for her glass and lifting it to her lips. Her blanket slipped from her shoulders and she saw Killian’s eyes dart to her exposed skin before she took a sip of the alcohol and the tiny bubbles fizzled on her tongue. “You’ve raced Moto2,” she shrugged. “Maybe we crossed paths once.”

“No,” Killian said vehemently, shaking his head and swallowing the champagne in his mouth. “I would have remembered.”

“Well, you don’t even know my name,” Emma suggested sweetly. “So maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I’m not worth the effort of all this.”

Killian smirked and rested his glass back onto the table in front of him before leaning back in his chair. Emma watched, the impossibly handsome man getting even more good looking as he changed position and nervously licked his bottom lip before tracing the pink flesh with a single fingertip.

“I would have remembered,” Killian reiterated after a moment's thought. “Because when you see something so beautiful, you’re changed forever.” He stared at her, his eyes the bluest shade of a thousand seas Emma had ever seen, and she felt her throat go dry and her stomach drop. “Your world is altered in an instant, and you can’t go back to before, when it was dull and grey, because the light is where you want to be, with whatever took you there.” He paused, holding her gaze so intently Emma thought he might burn a hole right through her. “So, despite not knowing your name, love, I feel like this,” he stopped again, motioning to his start line dining table, “is worth the effort. _You_ are worth the effort.”

Emma coughed a little, covering her mouth as she cleared the dryness in her throat. “Good line,” she rasped through another coy smirk. “How many women have fallen for that Killian Jones charm?”

Undeterred by her bristled response, Killian grinned. “None so far, but there is a first time for everything.”

“Ah,” Emma nodded, not believing him.

“What, love?” Killian read her instantly. “You think between races, parties, sponsors, testing, and my family I have time for dating?”

“You don’t?” Emma pried innocently.

“Did you? When you raced I mean?” Killian pried back.

“Stop deflecting my questions back at me,” Emma told him sternly, unable to tear her eyes away from his when he simply stared at her and raised his eyebrow to accompany his playful grin. 

“Why don’t you want to talk about your race days?” Killian asked, reaching for his glass once more. Condensation covered his fingertips and he gripped it harder so as not to drop it.

“It’s not a first date kind of story,” Emma said with a sigh. “Maybe after a few more,” she said, downing what was left in her glass. “Maybe after some actual food.” She looked around but there didn’t seem to be any food of any sort nearby. She couldn’t even smell anything but the stench of burnt rubber and oil, so she looked back to Killian with a questioning expression. “Is there going to be any food here tonight?”

Killian smiled, again humoured by her. “This is a race track, love, not a restaurant.”

“So, where’s the food?” Emma asked him, pulling the blanket around her arms a little tighter. The sun had gone down hours ago, and if she had known she would be sitting out on a track she might have worn something a little less revealing.

“Oh, that’s back at my place,” Killian smirked.

Emma tilted her head to the side and gave him a narrow eyed stare. “Presumptuous much?”

“I don’t know what you are expecting, lass,” Killian said innocently, pushing himself to his feet and tucking the chair back under the table. The wooden legs scraped on the asphalt underneath them, but they both ignored it. “But I am a world class motorbike racer who couldn’t just invite _anyone_ back to his home. I mean, what if you were some kind of crazed fan.”

“I’m not.”

“Or someone who had broken into this track compound just to see if they could beat me in a race,” he continued as he approached her with a wry grin.

“I didn’t and you’re forgetting I _did_ beat you,” Emma reminded him, pushing herself to her feet. She wobbled slightly when the chair snagged on a rough patch of the track, but Killian was there to right her when she threatened to topple sideways.

“I’m sure I will never forget it, what with how many times you mention it,” Killian smiled at her.

“Had I mentioned it?” Emma frowned, pursing her lips. “I don’t remember.”

“Alright,” Killian huffed in mock annoyance as he grabbed her hand. “Let’s go, miss?” He prompted with a genuinely honest smile that turned her stomach over again.

“Swan,” Emma said softly as she mirrored his smile. “But my friends call me Emma.”

“And am I a friend yet, miss Swan?” Killian looked up at her, his face a picture of childlike innocence as he gave her his best puppy dog eyes and lifted their joined hands to his lips. The feel of his lips on the back of her hand were like a brand, emblazoning the feel of themselves forever onto her skin.

“You’re getting there,” she smirked as a ripple of excitement passed through her. “When you are, I’ll let you know.”

\--

It took less than two hours for Emma to realise that Killian Jones was nothing like what she had heard through the race circuit and media. He had gone out of his way to make her feel special, despite his own reservations. Clearly, something had happened to him before and she understood it completely. There wasn’t a rider out there who hadn’t come across an over zealous fan, and as a female rider, Emma had encountered her fair share of weirdos and stalkers, and as she polished off her last glass of wine, she was sure she was turning into one herself.

Sat across from her on his huge, L-shaped couch, slouched back against the cushions with a mellow grin on his face, Killian was more appealing than ever. Under the buzz of drunkenness, Emma had begun to appreciate him much more than she had before. Killian was something, a real specimen, highly athletic with muscles that bulged underneath the luxurious material of his clearly expensive shirt and drew her gaze every time he moved. 

Two shirt buttons undone was not enough for Emma to fully appreciate it, but the chest hair that she could see was thick, and black, and cried out to be touched, it’s silky texture shimmering in the light of his lounge. More wine, food and some beers had taken their toll on him and he had almost succumbed to the pull of sleep, only snapping himself awake when Emma had moved and plopped herself down on the cushion beside him.

“Miss Swan,” Killian had squeaked in mock surprise, his hand finding her bare thigh almost immediately. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Can you see me though?” Emma cocked her head to one side before flopping it to the opposite. “You have glassy eyes.”

“That’s because you made me drink more than I normally do when entertaining a woman,” he laughed.

“Oh really?” She leaned into him, her breasts pushing against his shoulder and her hand resting on his chest. “And how often do you entertain women?” She teased, her finger slipping beneath where the two sides of his shirt were buttoned together to finally feel his chest hair.

“As a matter of fact,” Killian began, lifting his hand to point an accusatory finger at her humoured expression.

“Yes?” Emma prompted, knowing his words had probably been stolen because her fingertips had brushed over his nipple.

“I haven’t,” Killian admitted, blinking his eyes closed. “I mean, I don’t-”

“Right,” Emma droned out with a grin.

“No, really,” Killian nodded, his head a little floppier than usual. He sat himself up as he cleared his throat, his fingers tightening their grip around her thigh. “It’s been a while.”

“Hmmm,” Emma hummed, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You’re telling me that a guy as smokin’ hot as you, hasn’t had a woman in a while.”

“You think I’m hot?” Killian giggled.

“Shut up,” Emma scolded, pulling her hand from his shirt and giving him a playful slap on the chest. “Seriously,” she urged. “Why no women?”

Killian took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks as he contemplated her question. Why hadn’t he? Race rules, team duties, the loss of his brother? None of those could explain the gaps of time between race seasons when he still chose not to entertain a woman. He liked the attention in front of the cameras when he was Killian Jones, World Champion. But when he was home, and he was just Killian Jones the man, what mattered most to him was finding the right someone to share his time with. Someone who cared about Killian Jones the man more than his title or wealth.

“Come on, tell me,” Emma nudged him with her elbow, shaking him from his reverie.

Killian turned to look at her, really look at the woman beside him. He had known her for less time that a working day, and yet, he felt like he had known her his entire life. She was gorgeous, there was no denying that, and any man would have been lucky to spend time with her. She was intriguing but also funny, witty beyond comprehension and she made his skin come alive with her little touches here and there. His body’s reaction to her was obvious and he would be a fool to ignore it.

“How about a tour first?” Killian suggested with a nudge of his head. “Come on,” he urged, standing up on wobbly bare feet and offering her his hand for the second time that evening. “I have something I think you’re going to really like.”

Emma took his hand, letting him pull her from the couch, their bodies crashing together unexpectedly. She blushed and he gasped a breath at the contact, his fingers gripping tightly at hers by their side like he wasn’t sure what to do. Emma looked up at him through her lashes, lips gently parted to help feed her starving lungs since her heart had sped up in her chest, with eyes that had darkened instantly with the desire that Killian fuelled inside of her. Emma could feel his rapid heartbeat against the palm of her hand pressed to his chest and she didn’t mistake the darkness in his own eyes when she caught his gaze.

“Where is it?” She almost whispered, her eyes flicking to his lips.

Words failed him and all Killian could do with his last vestiges of will power was step back, blinking himself back to reality. Emma missed the contact immediately and was reluctant to release her hold on his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to her own reality. Killian gave her a friendly smile, squeezing her fingers and tugging her arm gently until she decided to walk with him.

“This way, love,” he told her softly. He licked his lips and turned around so he could see where he was going, a relieved sigh escaping his mouth silently as he exhaled a steadying breath. He wasn’t lying. It had been a while and he wasn’t about to risk his career with a woman who insisted on name formalities. Even drunk he wasn’t that much of an idiot.

“What is it?” Emma asked excitedly, her bare feet padding across the warmed flooring as she almost skipped after him. 

“You’ll see,” Killian smirked, reaching a door at the end of a darkened hallway. There was a lock on the door and before she had time to ask him what he was doing, Killian had released her hand and was going to work unbuttoning his shirt.

“Here?” Emma raised an eyebrow, shifting her weight a little to watch him.

“Stop objectifying me, woman,” Killian said with a grin. “I know it’s hard, but please try,” he added as he finished undoing the line of buttons on his shirt and pulled the edges open.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Emma promised weakly, unable to stop her eyes roaming the thatch of glorious, dark chest hair that adorned his torso. Her hands itched to feel it, to trace the shape of his nipple as it pebbled under her touch, but she refrained, instead spying the small, silver blunted key hanging around his neck and giving him a confused look. “You wanted to show me a key?”

“No, love,” Killian grinned boyishly as he lifted the thin chain over his head and held the key in his palm. “This key opens this door,” he motioned behind him. “Behind which is something I think you are going to really appreciate.”

“Is it a sex dungeon?” Emma laughed.

“I’m not that exciting I’m afraid,” Killian laughed with her, feeling like it was the most natural thing he had ever done. “But I do want to share it with you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Emma mocked, swaying her hips a little as she circled him and leaned back against the white panelled door. The wood was cold against her body, the thin material of her skimpy red dress barely enough to keep her warm, but she didn't even notice as soon as Killian shortened the gap between them leaving barely an inch between their bodies.

“Turn around,” he rasped darkly with a coy smirk.

Emma complied without hesitation, rolling her body against the door until she was facing away from him. Her hands spread out beside her head and she pinched her eyes closed, the thrill of what was coming next causing the welcome flutter in her stomach once again. Her chest heaved up and down, the wooden door cold against her bosom, and when Killian stepped forward and pressed his body against hers, she couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her lips.

“Easy,” he whispered into the back of her ear, setting every hair on her neck on high alert as a prickle ran over her skin and they stood to attention. Killian slipped his hand between them, poking the key into the lock and twisting it slowly, enjoying the way Emma gasped when his bare chest pushed against the patches of skin her barely there dress revealed. “Ready?” Emma nodded, unable to form words. “Good.” Killian nuzzled his nose into the patch of skin behind her ear, inhaling her scent and letting the fog of his breath affect her even more. “Close your eyes.”

Emma couldn’t stop the giggle of excitement that tumbled from her mouth when she heard the door latch click open and then felt Killian’s hands covering her eyes. Her hands found his forearms, gripping on for dear life as he walked her into a room that she could tell was huge just by the way the sound of her laughter echoed off the walls. It smelled clean but not antiseptic, not a single chemical smell to be found but instead the familiar, metallic smell of engine cleaner and lubrication spray mechanics often used to clean parts with. Her enthusiasm heightened, Emma shuffled her feet forward on Killian’s tender instruction until he stopped her and she felt him smile against her neck.

“Alright,” he announced, pulling his hands away from her eyes and sliding them down her body until they rested on her hips. He let go of one briefly to flick a switch but it returned to the warmth of her body quickly. “Open your eyes.”

Emma peeled her eyes open, ignoring the blinding whiteness of the room and blinking to adjust her focus. It was nothing like what she had imagined would be behind such a mundane looking door and all she could do was gasp, her heart stopping dead in her chest.

“Wow,” she breathed, stepping from his embrace in shock.

The room was filled with motorcycles, each on its own dedicated display stand like they were in some sort of museum. The more Emma looked around, the more variety she saw, from some of the rarest antique classics to some of the most sleek looking modern constructions, her heart was a flutter with each and every one. But there was one, sitting alone in the middle of the collection like a giant black and yellow wasp, that caught her attention and well and truly held it.

Emma gave Killian a quick glance over her shoulder before stumbling forward on legs that were shaky from a combination of alcohol and disbelief. The centre piece to Killian’s collection was none other than one of the rarest motorcycles to ever exist, requiring even the most professional of riders to complete a two week course before even being able to own one. Killian followed her with a proud smile, simply watching her appreciate the bike like he knew she would.

“Is this?” Emma gasped in shock.

“Aye, love, it is,” Killian confirmed. He loved the way she reacted, a girlish giggle falling from her mouth as she reached out and hovered her hand over the cold, matt black and yellow finish of the bodywork.

“Killian,” she paused, wide eyed when she turned to look at him. “This is an Ecosse Spirit ES1.”

“Aye, I know,” Killian grinned in boyish glee.

“One of the best handling, lightest, most powerful F1 inspired motorcycles to ever exist.” Her rambling was cute and Killian took another step towards her with a nod.

“Aye,” he agreed with amusement. 

“Don’t these cost like $3 Million?” Emma frowned, turning back to the bike one more time to make sure it was really there.

“$3.6 Million, actually,” Killian clarified, finally reaching her and grabbing her hand. Emma tried to resist but he pushed her, coaxing her that final step forward until her fingertips brushed over the yellow and black paintwork. Killian laid his hand over hers, flattening her palm to the machine’s huge fuel tank, watching her features turn from shock to satisfaction. “There are only ten in the world,” he told her, moving her hand over the curve of the tank and along the supple leather of the rider’s seat. “And only one in this colour.”

Emma was stunned to silence. The Ecosse ES1 was unattainable to most people, its huge price tag and strict purchase requirements putting most people off of anything more than photos. Emma had admired the concept since its inception, intrigued by the combination of a superbike and an F1 car in one package, something that would most likely never be affordable to many teams, let alone one person.

“Wow,” Emma repeated, moving around the bike deliberately, putting the machine between the two of them. “Can I see you on it?” She looked up to meet his gaze, the shock in her eyes evident but laced with something else Killian hadn’t noticed before.

“Is that a turn on for you?” Killian smirked, lifting his leg over the back of the bike and settling into the softness of the seat. His toes stretched out instinctively towards the floor, but the bike was firmly fixed in position on its stand and would not topple over. 

Emma bit her bottom lip at the sight, her fingertips caressing the taught fabric over Killian’s thigh. “You know,” Emma began salaciously. “I’ve always wanted to fuck on a bike.”

“I don’t believe you haven’t,” Killian told her, patting his lap, unable to take his eyes off of her as she hitched up the skin tight dress she was wearing. When she was done, she set one foot on the peg of the footrest and lifted herself up and over the bike until she was sitting astride Killian’s lap, facing him. 

Emma slid down the fuel tank, her open thighs on display to his hungry gaze as Killian smoothed his hands up them in an attempt to steady her. Her skin was soft under his roughened finger tips and he sucked in a steadying breath through his grin. When she was settled they were almost eye to eye, his breathing catching in his throat when she raked her nails over the definition of his chest and abs that were hidden under his chest hair.

“Never,” Emma rasped, her arms coming up and resting on his shoulders. She buried her fingers in his raven locks, cupping the back of his skull in her hands, her lips millimeters from his as she looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I’d like to,” she told him and felt his fingernails dig into the skin of her thighs in restraint.

“Love,” Killian said huskily, resting his forehead on hers. “I don’t even know if we are friends yet.” He let his lips skim over hers so softly they were almost not there, his attention focused more on searing the imprint of them into the beating pulse point of her neck. He wrapped his arms around her much smaller frame, hugging her to him as he ravaged her neck, following a path down the perfect column until he stopped, fogging the swell of her heaving breasts with his words. “Are we friends yet, Emma Swan?”

Emma felt her nipples harden at his words, her name on his breath laced with sweetness and a darkness that made her skin hum. She laughed, clutching his head harder so he couldn’t leave her skin alone for a second, torn between letting him continue his assault that was clearly heading south, or finally tasting his lips on hers. The latter won out and she pulled his head up, crashing her lips into his with a force that knocked him backwards for a second, his own feverish return delayed until he heard her moan down deep in her throat and his resolve snapped.

“Yes,” Emma panted between kisses, the feel of his lips on hers like a ray of sunshine in a rainstorm. They were soft and even though his kisses were forceful, they were like a caress on the exact right side of painful that made her flood her panties with a sudden wetness that she hadn’t felt for a long time. “Say my name,” she insisted through her haze, tearing her lips from his so that he could focus on her instruction.

“Emma,” Killian rasped in a gravelly voice, chasing her lips. “Gods, it’s Emma,” he sighed, almost wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets as he aided her in pushing his shirt from his back. “Such a beautiful name.”

His lips were back on hers in an instant, the hunger behind his kiss evidently taking its toll on his body. Emma smirked against his lips when she felt him harden, the already minute space between their bodies disappearing as his erection pressed up into the apex of her thighs and he rolled his hips, eager to feel her pressing down on him even more. Emma shifted forward, rolling her own hips forward and downward, letting his length press up into her folds even more, an action that had him growling out loud in frustration.

Without even asking, Emma knew exactly what he wanted. She reached down between their bodies, working on the button of his pants, fighting with the material that had been pulled taut by his erection. When the button finally popped open, Killian let out a sigh of relief, tearing his lips from hers and moving his mouth to her shoulder, nibbling at the flesh there as his hand tore the thin strap of her dress aside. He grazed his teeth over the joint, fingernails scraping down her upper arm in his attempt to get as close to her as possible, his lips finally finding the swell of a breast and peppering her chest with more aggressive kisses.

He held her as she involuntarily arched backwards, his hands splayed out over the expanse of her back as he rested her against the curve of the fuel tank. His lips never left her skin, hands tugging down the material of her dress to expose his prize and a satisfied groan escaping his throat when Emma’s nipples hardened even more as soon as the air hit them. She palmed them, grabbing the flesh roughly and sliding even further down the bike until she was sure Killian could feel the dampness between her thighs against his rock hard length.

“I don’t have-,” Killian began hoarsely, sliding his hands to his groin and finally freeing his hardness despite his mind’s protest. He pumped himself a few times to relieve the ache in his balls, the skin shifting over his sensitive head and making him hiss. “We should stop,” he ground out, his body fighting his own words.

“What? Why?” Emma asked in a daze, grabbing the sides of his scruffy face and lifting his chin so she could look in his eyes.

“We can’t be careful here,” Killian said, unable to stop himself from leaning forward and tasting her skin. He pushed out of her hold and latched onto one of her nipples, pulling the bud between his lips and humming against her flesh in content. He clawed down the side of her body, gently scraping his nails over her ribs and leaving her nipples for a second so he could kiss the sensitive skin underneath the swell, the faint lines of her bra still lingering on her skin.

“Where?” Emma barely managed, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Killian let her go with a growl, ignoring the mutter of protest as he lifted her off his lap and sat her back on the very top of the smooth, yellow fuel tank. She giggled as he grabbed her thighs, pawing the flesh in protest of his own idea, swinging his leg back and dismounting the bike all the while mindful of his raging erection rubbing against the fabric of his underwear as he moved. Emma watched him intently, worried for a second that he might leave her, before he moved to the side of the bike and hauled her up into his arms.

Her lips were on his before a second had passed, the urgency of her need for his return clear by the way she grabbed at his shoulders and her legs wrapped around his waist. His muscles rippled under her fingers as he moved in long, determined strides to somewhere else in the house that Emma had yet to see. Teeth clashed and tongues duelled, hot, sloppy kisses giving each of them a renewed sense of passion as they headed to Killian’s bedroom and he kicked open the door.

Emma giggled, squealing in joy as Killian reached his huge bed and as soon as his knees touched the frame, tossed her onto the mattress. Emma hit the comforter with a bounce, righting her half naked body just in time to brush her hair away from her face and feel Killian tugging on her ankle. She flopped back, hair fanning out around her head as Killian lifted her leg to his face and kissed her ankle, caressing her heel in both hands like it was a delicate egg. The scruff on his chin, with its small, ginger hairs glinting in his bedroom lamplight, tickled her skin and she yanked her foot from his grasp with a chuckle.

“I’m sorry,” Emma snorted a laugh, watching his dejected expression. “That tickles!”

“Oh,” Killian sang, kneeling between her legs as he climbed half way onto the bed and reached for her dress. The material was bunched up around her waist now, having been pulled down then upwards, but it was easily maneuvered back down over her hips with a forceful tug. “You shouldn’t have told me that,” he growled with glee, shedding the remains of his clothes at the bedside before diving naked onto the bed and rubbing his scruff over the silky smooth skin of her stomach.

“Killian!” Emma cried out, pulling her knees to her chest and trapping him against her body.

His name on her lips was enough for him to take pity on her, and as his teasing turned into kissing, he felt her body relax once more as she stretched out like a cat beneath him. Emma’s body felt heavy as she let all her limbs fall to the plush, cotton covered comforter and cast a quick glance down her body to where a very talented Mr. Jones was currently worshipping every inch of her naked body. Every kiss made her wetter, every brush of his fingers over the jut of her hip bone made her squirm and finally, as he dipped his tongue into her navel, Emma could take no more.

Hooking a crooked finger under his chin, she dragged his head upwards until he paused over her cleavage and their eyes met. His made her gasp, the previously bluebell spark almost totally gone and replaced by a stormy, lustful grey that made her nipples harden even more on each of her breasts. Emma pulled his head and he had no choice but to follow, climbing over her body like a tiger stalking prey and seizing her lips once more. Emma’s body reacted without a beat, her back arching up and off the bed until their bodies were pressed together, and her legs wrapped around his waist.

Killian broke the kiss to catch his breath, pushing himself up by his arms and looking down at the petite blonde beneath him. She was a marvel, curved in all of the right places and skin so soft to the touch it felt wrong to caress her with such race roughened hands. Not that Emma minded at all. She was loving the feel of him, any part of him, and he had come to realise, in this short extra curricular activity, that he would never be away from her for too long before she was changing things in her favour.

Emma, true to form, rolled them over in a move so smooth, it almost felt choreographed. Truth was, it wasn’t. They were just two people who fit well together, in any position they found themselves in, one always teasing the other, in the bedroom as well as the race track. Like right now, as Emma repositioned herself into a straddle and ground her wetness down onto Killian’s bare length in an attempt to really drive him insane.

“Emma, Gods,” Killian ground out through gritted teeth. He slammed his head into the mattress, the chorded muscles in his neck straining and his fingernails digging into her thighs spread eagled over his length.

Emma simply smirked at the pleading nature of her name on his lips, bracing her hands on his chest and sliding herself up and down, coating his cock with her essence. “This is what you did to me, Killian,” she rasped accusingly through a coy smile. She leaned forward until her lips were level with his ear, smirking against the shell of the pointed flesh. “You made me so wet,” she sang into his ear like a siren and Killian thought he was going to come there and then.

“You feel amazing,” he growled, kneading the flesh over her hip with a forceful grab.

Emma sat up a little, setting her weight down on his length, pinning it to his stomach. She could feel the throb of blood rushing to his erection and with a sly smirk, clenched her inner muscles knowing full well he would feel her. “Just wait until you feel the inside,” she added darkly.

Killian sat upright suddenly, hands holding her to him as he kissed her again. It was more ferocious than before, more needy, a silent plea for Emma to end his torment and fuck him until he saw stars. His hands buried themselves in her hair, cradling the curve of her skull and holding her mouth to his as his tongue explored. Emma moaned, the sound nothing more than a whimper that sent a fresh surge of blood to Killian’s erection and made it bob against the hardness of her clit between them.

It was too much, her grinding alone almost getting her off. Emma felt her arms tingle, her legs beginning to shake before she pushed her weight forward and Killian held her as they both fell back on the bed behind him. “Get it,” Emma commanded, sitting back upright and clawing lines into Killian’s chest. “Get it now.”

Killian didn’t need to be told again, half rolling himself sideways until he could reach the bedside table. There were three drawers but he went to the middle one, rummaging around behind his socks until he pulled out a small foil wrapper that Emma snatched from his grasp as soon as he rolled back into position underneath her. With a salacious grin she shuffled down over his thighs, trapping him in place and, for the first time, taking in the size of his member as it bobbed against his stomach.

“Don’t worry, love,” Killian smiled slyly, one eyebrow rising on his head. “It won’t hurt.”

“Pfft, please,” Emma dismissed, tearing open the wrapper and making sure the condom was fitted in the right way. She pinched the tip, seating it on the velvety smooth head of him before taking him in her grasp and rolling the latex slowly and deliberately down over his shaft. “You think this is the biggest thing I’ve ridden in my career?” 

Killian couldn’t take her teasing any longer and grabbed her behind the knees, yanking her entire body up until she was seated back across his groin. She let out a small squeal of shock, before relaxing and letting him position his length at her entrance, just the tip of him enough to give her that burning stretch she hadn’t felt for so long. A gasp and a furrowed brow told Killian he had hit the right spot, inching into her a little further with a gentle pull down of her hips. When Emma was fully relaxed, his entire length inside of her, he bent his knees up behind her and let her recline against his thighs, content that her smug remark had been thoroughly seen to.

“No,” Killian ground out as Emma began to cant her hips, swiveling them forward and back, rocking on the hardness inside of her with a soft whimper. “But it’s going to be the best thing you’ve ever ridden, period.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Emma sighed with a nod of her head and a bite of her bottom lip. She changed her rhythm, rising up and then sinking back down onto him with a force that bumped her clit just right. She repeated it, only this time Killian met her half way, thrusting up into her and expelling all of the air from her lungs.

“Yeah, that’s it, Emma,” Killian grunted. “Ride me, there’s a good girl.”

She was so wet, slickness easing each of his thrusts, and Emma wasn’t sure she could even make any more lubrication until Killian had said those words. She felt the warmth pool in her stomach and the tingle inside of her walls that signalled her imminent orgasm. Normally she would have taken much longer to reach euphoria, but Killian was perfect, in all the right places, and she chased down her pleasure intending to firmly grasp a hold of it and never let go. 

Again she switched it up, falling forward until her hair framed both of their faces and they were breathing in each others air. Emma clawed at his cheeks, the bristles of his beard soft under her fingertips as she began panting in a new rhythm of breaths that made Killian even harder inside of her. She was close. He could tell because of the muscles inside of her, contracting as she ground her clit against his pubic bone over and over, a thin sheen of sweat covering her entire body.

She let out a squeak, smashing her lips into his despite their need to breathe, and her movements became staggered, her hips moving erratically suddenly because she was about to come. The angle was right, the pressure on her clit was just perfect, and when Killian felt the muscles in her thighs tense up, her took it upon himself to extend Emma’s pleasure. She let out no protest when he wrapped his arms around her body and plowed himself into her core, the spongy walls there tightening with every thrust that prolonged her orgasm. She was numb, unable to do anything but cry out in ecstasy, her wails on the verge of crying because of the sensitivity following her release.

It wasn’t long after she had gone completely stiff on top of him and Killian slowed his movements to shorter, more forceful thrust, that he came, spilling his seed into the latex barrier between them. He kept thrusting, even as he began to soften, content to feel the pull of her inner muscles as ripples of euphoria still made her core flutter with activity. Finally, he let her go, softening his hold on her and brushing her hair aside so he could kiss her shoulder, his lips pecking tenderly at the sweaty flesh like a soothing balm on a burn.

“Oh yeah,” Emma panted, weakened but still able to lift herself to meet his gaze. Killian smiled expectantly, one hand drawing lazy circles over the base of her spine whilst the other divested himself of the spent condom, mindful not to let anything spill out as he discarded it on the nightstand. 

“Yeah, what, love?” Killian pried, repositioning so that he had one arm behind his head and could take in the beauty of her straddled across his body.

Emma shook her hair away from her face, tucking some strands behind her ear before pressing her lips to Killian’s with a content hum. “Now we’re friends,” she chuckled, grabbing his face between her hands and pulling his smile to hers once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading guys!


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